The Sandwich
by Honour Society
Summary: In which Massie eats a sandwich as big as her head, learns an important life lesson and has an epiphany. Not necessarily in that order. No pairings. First in the “Massie's Epiphanies” oneshot series.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Clique_, _Teen Vogue_, _Apple_, _Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle_ or _Jimmy Choo_.

**Author's Note: **This is the first in my new one shot-series, **_Massie's Epiphanies._**

**THE SANDWICH,  
#1 IN THE "MASSIE'S EPIPHANIES" SERIES**

_-A Clique OneShot by Honour Society-_

All at once Massie was hit an epiphany. Such an epiphany that she had to lay back on her heavenly, 600-thread count white duvet and massage her temples, while counting backwards from one hundred.

Her sudden realization was that she was hungry. Very hungry, in fact. Hungry for a three-layer whole wheat sandwich with bacon, melted cheddar cheese, lettuce and two perfectly sliced tomatoes. She could visualize herself chomping into this sandwich as if it was her last supper and enjoying every second of it. How nice would it be to_-for once-_banish all worries of appearance and just have a good meal? Of course, she would need a glass of whole milk to go with it. And perhaps one of Inez's home baked chocolate-chip cookies straight from the oven for dessert.

This odd hunger came on far too strongly, far too quickly, so she couldn't control it with thoughts of bone-thin models lining the pages of _Teen Vogue_, while wearing all the latest size-zero fashions from New York, Milan and Paris.

The pretty brunette combed her long fingers through her long hair and pushed herself off the bed. In a dreamy, euphoric state she forgot to smooth away the wrinkles before exiting the iPad, which was what she and her friends had unceremoniously named the all-white room.

As she walked through the many twisting hallways and rooms, she couldn't help but overhear her parents. Her father, William, a forty-something, determined businessman with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and an overall distinguished demeanor, was in the middle of a very loud, very important business call. This call involved a lot of dramatic clicking on the keyboard of his slim Apple laptop, long pauses, and the oft shouted words, "No, _your_ client is at fault!"

On the other hand, Kendra, Massie's late-thirties mother, who's face had about as much plastic in it as Barbie's, was quite calm and collected. At all times. She wore simple cashmere twinsets, wide-leg pants, little black dresses and strings of Akoya pearls. At this moment, though, Kendra's "dear friend", Regan Morrissey was visiting for their weekly cup of mint tea, Atkins diet-approved biscuits and gossip. Regan, who was visible through the crack of the open door, had lengthy, shockingly blue-black curls and was clad in a perfectly acceptable black V-neck and pleated pants ensemble.

"Oh, Kendra. You absolutely_ must_ call Pierre. Look at you," Regan deadpanned, making exaggerated hand gestures and pointing wildly at Kendra's perfect coffee-coloured bob. "You hair is flat. Colourless. You look like…well, Mona Lisa without the smile."

Massie couldn't see her mother, but knew that if she could Kendra's face would read equal parts ignorance, acceptance and anger.

Continuing on her long trek to the kitchen, she ignored the belly laughing of their new maid, Loretta, who also happened to be Inez's daughter.

Everyone loved Loretta and it was hard not to. Unlike her mother, she made cleaning and cooking seem about as fun as riding a roller coaster while drinking carbonated soda. For her benefit, Massie even gave Loretta a small wave as she passed the guest room (done in cool blues and greens) that the young maid was cleaning.

_Finally_, Massie thought as she turned the final corner into the kitchen, which she was unsurprised to find occupied by only Inez.

"Could I have a sandwich, please?" Massie asked in the politest tone she could muster, facing all her hunger. Without another word, she slipped into a mahogany chair so clean you could check your teeth for spinach and awaited Inez's reply.

"Of course. Your usual? Two slices of thin multi-grain bread, light spreading of fat-free margarine, fresh salmon…" Inez had the perfect American accent, except for the slight exotic twinge at the end of her sentences. Massie thought it added character, but Inez only seemed to frown upon the fact that she wasn't born in the states, although she had gained citizenship and her visa long ago.

"No thanks. Actually, I have this sort of craving. Like when you're pregnant, but I'm def not preggers. Thank gawd. None of the good designers have maternity lines. I would kill myself if my bloated ankles wouldn't let me wear Choos. Um, where was I? Oh, yeah. I have this craving. I was thinking…" Massie went on to describe her sandwich in great detail, being careful not to skip anything.

Inez dutifully made The Sandwich, despite knowing what it would do to the young Miss Block's perfect figure. _It'll all go to her hips_. When it was good and ready, the tall, elegant woman presented it in front of Massie.

The look in Massie's eyes at that moment might've resembled a fox looking at a rabbit. Or a cougary old woman looking at a hot-as-hell college guy with shaggy hair and a six pack.

As she consumed the mega Sandwich, her mind felt clear for once. No worries about how to conquer OCD again (after the arrival of the boys), about keeping the New Pretty Committee together, staying with the boy fast and looking perfect constantly.

Kendra had recently hired a Yogalates instructor named Madan, a University of Delhi-grad turned calm enthusiast of all things serene. He also happened to look like a hotter, more toned version of that Kumar guy from _Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle_, with better eyebrows. Maden, which means Cupid, god of love, had taught the two Block women something very important.

Live in the moment. Massie wasn't sure if it was something they taught you in yoga school, or if it was just something Madan had made up. But she liked it.

Live in the moment. And in that moment, she was eating a sandwich.


End file.
